Part 29 (1/2)
Julien and Roland looked at each other. Roland looked sick.
”I do not believe,” said Monsieur Astier slowly, ”that our new government is going to resist. They are cooperating with the n.a.z.is. And the n.a.z.is will expect them, and us, to get used to seeing certain people treated this way. To find it normal, to shut up. I felt I had to tell you this, boys, because you as much as your parents have a right to the truth. To make your choices in the light of day. Boys, it's not just our government that has to decide what to do with the people who come in on the train. It's us.”
There was silence.
”Let's take a minute to think,” said Astier. ”The podium is open, if anyone has a response.”
A powerful hush settled over the schoolyard. The flag was flying high in the cold bright air, red as blood and blue as Henri's eyes. Julien closed his eyes against it and wondered, for a moment, if there really was a G.o.d. When he opened them, someone stood at the front, holding the bullhorn.
Henri Quatre.
”Let me tell you a different story,” said Henri in a clear voice. No, thought Julien, no. When does this stop? It doesn't stop. Nina is only the first. This is the future.
”Old pere Palla.s.son, who lived out at Le Chaux some years back,” said Henri, and Julien lifted his head. ”Have you heard about him? He never set foot out his door all winter for fear of the cold. And then come spring, the snow melted, and pere Palla.s.son looked out his window at the suns.h.i.+ne and thought it was summer-and he opened the door and walked out into the burle without a coat. May he rest in peace.”
There were a few chuckles from the crowd.
”I got up here to tell you,” Henri said, and he paused. Julien stared, his heart in his throat. A dark flush was coming over Henri's face. ”I got up here to tell you that pere Palla.s.son is me.” His quiet voice rang into the silence. ”When the armistice was signed, I thought we'd be okay. That it was spring, that it was back to normal. And it turns out,” he said slowly, ”that the burle is blowing harder than ever.”
No one whispered. No one moved. The entire school was staring at Henri Bernard. Julien was faint, he was light, he would dissolve at any moment into the cold, clear air.
”Monsieur Astier is right,” said Henri, loud and clear. ”The Vichy government isn't resisting. They are cooperating with the n.a.z.is.” His voice was harsh. ”I hate to say it, and I hate to think my country is doing this, and I'd put my hand to the fire that if the marshal knew what was going on, he'd stop it. But I've made up my mind. I trusted them. But I can't trust them anymore.” Julien was numb. Benjamin would never believe him.
”And we know.” Henri's voice began to ring. ”We know about persecution here in Tanieux. We know what to do with a government that makes unjust laws, laws that go against the law of G.o.d. We haven't forgotten the Huguenots-we still sing their songs; we haven't forgotten how our people came here fleeing the king's soldiers, hounded and driven out because someone thought they were the wrong kind of people. And so we know how it feels. And I'm here to say”-there was the tiniest tremble in his voice, and his fist clenched and he raised it up-”that I have made my choice. I'm here to say-”
There was a pressure in Julien's head, in Julien's heart. He could feel them all around him, the heads thrown back, the faces turned up toward him, toward Henri Bernard. Who knew exactly what he was doing. Who was king of France again just like that, and always would be. His eyes burned.
”I'm here to say,” said Henri fiercely, ”that anyone who wants to put people back on the train and send them somewhere else is not going to get any help from me!” Julien looked at him, at the clear blue sky above his head. Someone'll tell him. You know that, don't you. In Roland's eyes was awe.
”We're not going to keep refugees out of Tanieux!” Henri was shouting now. ”It's going to be what it was then: un abri dans la tempete-a refuge! We did it once, and we can do it again!” He stopped-Julien saw his throat working-and looked around. Monsieur Astier was stepping up to Henri, his hand held out; he was shaking Henri's hand. Henri Quatre.
It should have been me, but it was Henri Quatre. Oh G.o.d. You've bested me again.
And Louis beside him began to clap.
And Roland clapped. And Jean-Pierre clapped, and Philippe clapped, and Pierre and Dominique clapped, and then it swelled, and it swept through the crowd, and the boys were cheering and stamping their feet, and Julien threw back his head and laughed out loud.
”Tanieux!” somebody yelled. ”L'abri!” Someone else took it up, in rhythm, and then they were calling it out on the one-two beat: ”Tanieux! L'abri! Tanieux! L'abri!” And Roland shouted and Louis shouted and Pierre shouted, and Julien shouted, at the top of their lungs.
Nina was crying. Hard sobs that shook her, her head held tight against Maria's chest. Maria, who had heard her, who knew it all now. Who had been with her on the border in the dark; who had wept with her in her cell. Maria, Marita, the arms of a mother, holding her tight. The grief and fear shaking her, and the anger, like waves of the sea: they crashed over her, sucked her down, and lifted her again. Maria's arms gripped her and took the shaking, and the waves washed her clean.
Slowly, the sobs wore themselves out, and she breathed.
The light from the window fell on the white bedspread. It glowed. It fell on Maria's face that bent over her, her cheek bright, her eyes dark.
”Maria,” she whispered. ”I was right. Wasn't I. About the evil men.”
”Yes,” said Maria quietly.
”But I think maybe. Maybe.” She looked Maria in the eye, hard, searching. There was so much light. ”Maria ... is there a G.o.d?”
Maria looked at her, her dark eyes deep and steady. Then she smiled. That glowed too. ”I didn't tell you the end of the story,” she said. ”Gino came home. My brother. One week after the man with the gun, my brother came home alive. We went to France. I got married. I had children.”
Tears filled her eyes. They filled her eyes with light.
”Is it-true?” Nina whispered. The light said it might be. The light said this woman would not lie to her, ever, while the earth went round. ”Am I ... safe ... here?”
Maria bent over her. Her eyes were very dark. ”Nina,” she said, ”I am not G.o.d. I cannot say, 'You are safe.' But I can tell you two things: There is a G.o.d who loves you. And if they take you, they must take me too.”
Outside the window was the sky. She could see up and up, so far, she could see forever into the blue, and the sight amazed her; as though the edge of some huge shadow had pa.s.sed over her, and was now gone.
It wasn't until lunchtime, on the way out of school, that Henri caught Julien by the sleeve and pulled him aside.
”I wanted to shake your hand, Julien.”
Julien looked at him. Henri and his honest blue eyes looking straight back at him. ”I'd like to shake yours,” he said. And there at the gate, as the boys walked past them on their way home for lunch, Henri Bernard and Julien Losier shook hands.
”You're a real tanieusard, Julien. I'm sorry I ever said any different.”
”I'm sorry too. You know.”
”Yeah. Listen. Tell your friends they don't need to worry about my father.”
Julien blinked and was silent a moment. ”Are you sure?”
”Would I say it if I wasn't sure?”
And Julien looked at Henri Bernard and saw it, the answer to all his praying. Henri would never lie. Not in any way, not to him, not to his worst enemy. The warmth of an unseen sunlight for a moment touched his face.
”No,” he said. ”I'll tell them.”
Epilogue.
The winter of 1940 was the worst Grandpa had ever seen.
The cold was deadly. The ice in the streets turned a dull gray-white, reflecting nothing of the sky. Grandpa looked at the woodpiles with sober, calculating eyes and called the family together to talk.
They went out together into the painful cold, to climb the hillsides and gather genets to burn.
But tonight, it was Christmas Eve, and the fire was piled high and blazing, lighting the circle of faces: Mama and Papa, Magali and Benjamin, Grandpa and his new houseguest, Jacques Bellat, whose real name was Jacob Blumenfeld.